


Roman Resolutions

by webcricket



Series: 24 Days of Christmas Advent Drabbles [19]
Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 02:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13226262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Prompt Theme - New Year’s Resolutions. Cas shows the reader not every holiday tradition has its origins in the supernatural. Happy fluffy New Year 2018, readers!





	Roman Resolutions

The bar erupts in a tumult of cheers and shouts of _Happy New Year!_ Confetti and champagne bubbles rain upon you. Sparklers flare and fizz – the faint smell of sulfur hangs in an atmosphere otherwise overpowered by the aroma of at least a centuries worth of spilled booze permeating the warped oak floorboards. The band strikes up a grating rock version of _Auld Lang Syne_ and the whole place begins to sing and sway. The room is so packed with intoxicated bodies it’s a miracle nothing and no one has caught fire in the raucous celebration of midnight’s arrival and the dawn of the new year.

You’re pressed firmly against Castiel’s chest, fingers gripping on for dear life at the lapels of his trench coat. The Winchesters are long gone – consumed by the crowd and libation; you don’t intend to lose the angel too. Peering up at Cas, noting the colorful wisps of paper dusting his dark locks and the dark furrow of his brow, you can see he’s uncomfortable. In your line of work, discordance at this decibel usually means things have gone horribly _horribly wrong_. He didn’t understand the need to ring in the new year in the first place – the passage of a time as human’s mark it being nothing especially significant to a celestial being of inestimable age. He’s here because you asked him to be here. And you asked him to be here because you can’t imagine starting a new year without him – whether he feels the same or not.

His disconcerted blue gaze rips from the cacophony of motion around you. Looking down at you, his eyes glitter and sparkle in the reflection of light. His pouting lips move, but you can’t hear the words over the bass and ruckus assault on your eardrums.

You rise onto your tip toes, wrapping your arms around his neck for support as you’re jostled by another jovial passerby. _“Get us out of here!”_ you pray, burrowing your face into the scruff of his neck.

He simply nods, tickling the delicate skin of your cheek with his unshaven chin and holding you unnecessarily tighter to his vessel.

Otherworldly silence envelopes you. The stormy scent of discharged angelic grace pleasantly tickles your nose as it dissipates into the fresh night air. Blinking, you slip from Cas’ grasp and spin to visually devour the scene. He’s flown you to an isolated snowy expanse – the white landscape barren and stretching as far as you can see to a rim of pine trees in the distance. Stars twinkle bright pinpricks in the cobalt blanketed atmosphere above, dimmed only by a setting gibbous moon.

“It’s beautiful,” you gasp, breath a lingering puff of white cloud.

“And quiet,” he adds with a relieved sigh, his overwhelmed angelic senses settling.

Shivering, you rub the goose bump-prickled flesh of your bare arms and internally curse the little black dress and open-toed heels you decided to wear in hopes of catching the angel’s eye tonight. You startle at a weight of fabric draping across your shoulders – slow to realize Cas is offering you his trench coat for warmth.

“Thank you.” You turn toward him with a smile and meet his unwavering gaze.

He gravitates nearer to tug the collar of the coat closed around you; a gentle smile relaxes the lines of his features as he carefully secures the buttons and cinches the belt around your waist.

You’re absolutely swimming in the coat – the hem gathered in a puddle at your feet – and you giggle in delight imagining how ridiculous you must look standing there in the garment.

He abruptly breaks off the work of his fingers and takes a decorous step backward, suddenly self-conscious of being too near for too long. At the bar, there was the excuse of the throng of people to cover the closeness, but out here – his flushed countenance bends heavenward. Adams apple bobbing thickly, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants.

You watch the idle angel, regretting the loss of his proximity. “Back there, at the bar. What were you trying to say?” You follow his gaze upward, recognizing the constellation of Orion peeking between thin swirls of cloud in the sky above.

“I was remembering something-,” the deep bass quality of his voice seems hushed in the cold embrace of the snow, “something they did in ancient Rome to observe the coming of January.”

“What’s that?” you ask, chin dropping to discover him staring back at you – his expression a patently odd mix of contemplative and apprehensive only the angel can pull off.

“There was a deity, Janus, whom the Romans made promises to each January.”

“Janus,” you echo the name.

“A two-faced idol, seeing both the past and future.” The angel leans toward you as he speaks, drawn nearer by the rapt wonder painting your aspect. He succumbs to the desire to steal a step closer before going on, “A deity of endings and beginnings. The proclamations made at the beginning of the new year are an omen portending the whole of it. I believe you call these promises New Year’s resolutions now.”

“So you’re telling me everyone making a New Year’s resolution is actually praying to an ancient Roman god?”

Cas gravely bobs his head in answer.

“Hmph,” you exhale, surprised, but also not. You shuffle closer to him. “Does every quaint holiday tradition we humans have this time of year originate in one silly ancient rite or another?”

The angel’s jaw flexes, eyes narrowing and growing fleetingly distant in thought as he skims the vast store of his celestial knowledge and experience. Satisfied he has found a tradition not at all supernaturally biased, his concentration resolves once more on you. “No, not all of them. There is one-”

“One?” You quirk an eyebrow askance. “Which one is that?”

His attention flits from your eyes to your questioningly parted mouth and when it alights again upon your eyes something new and different surfaces within the sea blue of his irises.

The profound depth of his gaze weakens your knees. If you had to name it – this newness in his regard – you’d call it passionate resolve. You inhale a shaky breath. “Cas?” you whisper, encouraging him to answer, involuntarily trembling.

Cas swiftly crosses the remaining distance separating you, one hand sweeping to catch the small of your back to lift your body and mouth up to meet his, the other caressing the column of your throat, fingers threading into your hair to tilt your head. His nose nudges into your cheek, breath ghosting hot across your skin before the heat of his lips scorch and thaw your icy ones; for all the fervor in his gaze, the kiss is tender and restrained.

Nonetheless, you’re breathless when he pulls away and releases you to melt down the plane of his torso. “Cas,” you pant, palms reaching up to capture his cheeks, direct touch impeded by the overlong sleeves of the trench coat, “that was-” _Unexpected_ doesn’t cover it. _Nice_ seems too trifling. _Fantastic_ , too enthusiastic. _Everything I’ve ever dreamed of_ , too verbose.

Watching you search for words, a smile traces his lips; you have often unknowingly rendered him speechless and he’s pleased to have returned the favor. “Is it not customary for two people to share a kiss on the start of New Year’s day to strengthen their bond for the coming year?”

Giving up on verbalizing _what_ that was and deciding you’ll happily settle for _more_ to really explore the roots of the custom, you tangle your comically fabric swathed hands about his neck and yank him down for another kiss.


End file.
